


Corrupted from Birth

by justanothermaniac



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Derogatory Language, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Physical Abuse, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Violence, Sibling Incest, Underage Drinking, Underage Sex, Underage Smoking, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-26
Updated: 2019-09-26
Packaged: 2020-10-28 17:46:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20782595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justanothermaniac/pseuds/justanothermaniac
Summary: The laugh. That hellforsaken laugh.





	Corrupted from Birth

**Author's Note:**

> It's gettin' dark in here, folks. Mind the tags.
> 
> So, what DID Miah's life in St. Ignatius look like? Well, it could've gone several ways. This right here is my take, because I'm a special kind of fucked up. But that's how you lovelies like me, isn't it?
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> ~ jam 💙

His name is Marcus.

He's obnoxious, loud-mouthed and tends to act and react through violence rather than words. He's three years older than Jeremiah and quite a bit taller, not as muscular as he would've preferred, but his freckled face, red hair and aggressive, yet strangely charismatic nature are enough to entice Jeremiah.

He's a bully, of course he is, and his favorite victim is Jeremiah. Marcus likes shoving Jeremiah into the lockers, or grab a fistful of his hair and throw him to the floor. He'll laugh at the tears in Jeremiah's eyes, hiss _poor little baby_ at him before kicking him in the stomach repeatedly. The other students take pity in Jeremiah's torment, but they never help, choose to watch silently, the overly-exaggerated sadness in their eyes feeling like a sunburn on Jeremiah's skin.

Sometimes, when Marcus is done, he lets his friends have their way with Jeremiah too, one pinning his wrists to the floor while the other straddles him and slams his fist in his face, over and over again, their laughter piercing Jeremiah's eardrums.

They're smart enough to never break his glasses, always taking them off beforehand, because glasses cost money and no matter how loaded their daddys are, whether he's a lawyer or a doctor, no father wants to pay for his son's favorite punching bag's new pair of glasses every other week.

Jeremiah's face is on fire by now. He's trying to gasp in enough air through his mouth, his nose most definitely broken. But the punches don't stop. "Xandy boy takes it like a bitch", he hears one of Marcus' friends growl. Jeremiah doesn't know his name, but he knows it's the short one with spikey black hair and the hideous overbite. Jeremiah doesn't need to know his name. He doesn't matter. 

Jeremiah takes the abuse the same way he's always taken the abuse. Silently and still, curling in on himself when he thinks he's allowed to as he cries without much of a sound, squeezing his eyes shut tightly enough that he makes himself see stars. He feels slender fingers card through his hair as his glasses are slipped back on his swollen face, Marcus' hot breath ghosting over his ear. "You're always great for a laugh, Xandy boo", he sings before letting Jeremiah's head drop back to the floor, his laughter echoing through the wide hallways of St. Ignatius, drowning Jeremiah's broken sobs. 

And later, when he's laying in bed, silk sheets enveloping his frail body and caressing his battered skin, he'll touch himself to the memory of rough hands grabbing him, holding him down, tearing him apart.

It would be enough to be disgusted by himself, but the worst part is that the face Jeremiah sees is never that of Marcus.

* * *

He starts seeking out Marcus' attention, staring at him on the outside campus, bumping into him in the hallway, standing too close to him in the line during lunch. If Marcus notices, he never says anything, but he'll grant Jeremiah the attention he so desperately craves, leaving him bruised, humiliated and achingly hard.

Jeremiah hopes that maybe, if he actively tries to make this about _Marcus_ and Marcus _only,_ he'll finally able to see Marcus' face, cry out Marcus' name when he comes all over himself in bed.

It doesn't work. Nothing seems to work. Jeremiah decides he'll have to take his effort to the next level.

* * *

He feels more determined than he looks, restless pupils darting around wildly as he stumbles down the hallway, trying to find Marcus. He pushes open the wooden door that leads to the outer campus, knowing it's where Marcus likes to smoke during classes he deems unnecessary.

Jeremiah has told Professor Farber, his chemistry teacher, that he wasn't feeling well and would go see the school nurse. Professor Farber believed him because _Xander_ doesn't lie, _Xander_ is a good kid, _Xander_ is kind and soft-spoken and _so very smart_.

He can almost feel the hot breath against his neck, hear the mocking giggle next to his ear._ "Always the golden boy ~"_

Shuddering, Jeremiah strides past the fountain towards one of the benches, far in the back of the campus. He spots Marcus lounging there, cigarette in one, phone in his other hand. His friends aren't with him because Marcus is known for needing his alone time, and you're not supposed to come near that with a ten foot pole.

But there are a lot of things Jeremiah isn't supposed to do. So what is one more?

Marcus lifts his head from his phone when he hears Jeremiah's footsteps scrape over the marble floor. He blinks, confused, before he starts to frown. "If it isn't my favorite crybaby." He puts his cigarette out on the bench, blowing out smoke in Jeremiah's direction. "You seem awfully keen on pissing me off lately, four-eyes. Not that I'm complaining."

He grins, pushing himself off the bench and approaching Jeremiah with slow, menacing steps. Jeremiah stands his ground, at least sort of, twisting his fingers together in an anxious habit he's possessed since early childhood. Marcus is towering over him, green eyes sharp and relentless. "Can I help you with something, _Xandy boo?"_

The way Marcus spews out the nickname is as far from affectionate as it could possibly be. Jeremiah is aware of that and it shoots a jolt through his body, right to his cock. He blinks slowly, looking up at Marcus through his lashes. He can see Marcus' eyes crack, his chest feeling warm at the small success. "Yes", Jeremiah whispers, taking a small step closer. Marcus' breath hitches. "You can."

He tangles his fingers in Marcus' tie, yanking him down to smash their lips together.

Marcus grunts, more in surprise than anything else, immediately shoving at Jeremiah's chest, pushing him off. He stumbles backwards a few steps, eyes glued to Marcus, whose pupils are blown wide, cheeks flushed. He's holding the back of his hand to his mouth and it's obvious that the gears in his head are turning rapidly, trying to figure out what the fuck just happened.

Jeremiah keeps watching him, not saying another word, not making another move. Marcus is blinking rapidly, slowly lifting his hand from his mouth. His lips are parted as he pants, considering Jeremiah for an endless moment.

Jeremiah endures it. Waits.

And then Marcus is grabbing his hips, pulling Jeremiah against him, hungry lips finding Jeremiah's own. Jeremiah makes a strangled little nose, his hands finding Marcus' hair, holding onto him for dear life. It's not his first kiss <strike>_(don't think about it, abandon the memory)_</strike> but Marcus still takes the lead, parting Jeremiah's lips with his own and shoving his tongue inside. He tastes like cigarettes and mint bubblegum, not unpleasant at all, sending a shiver down Jeremiah's spine.

Nothing about this is romantic or affectionate. Marcus' hands tug furiously at Jeremiah's button-up, nails scratching down exposed ribs, a damaged boy claiming an even more damaged boy, two lost souls desperately seeking comfort in tearing apart and being torn apart. 

They end up in one of the bathroom stalls right next to the entrance door of the outer campus, all grabby hands and sloppy tongues. Despite being seventeen, Marcus doesn't seem too experienced, rushing Jeremiah through too many sensations at once, grinding against him while biting and sucking at his neck, grabbing at his ass before tugging his pants down.

When Marcus shoves two fingers inside Jeremiah, clumsily trying to loosen him up, it feels like he's tearing him apart. Jeremiah's arms cramp around Marcus neck and he tries his hardest to stay still, knowing that squirming is only going to hurt worse. Marcus is leaving tooth marks all over his neck and shoulder, at one point biting down hard enough to break the skin.

Jeremiah arches his back, impaling himself further on the prodding digits inside of him, choking on his own spit. Marcus groans, apparently in approval because he nuzzles the side of Jeremiah's face, pressing a peck to a healing bruise Marcus himself left there a few days ago. Jeremiah moans, melting right into it, pleasure and pain colliding, battling to overtake his being. It's blissful. 

Marcus rips his fingers from Jeremiah's entrance far too soon. Jeremiah has to bite Marcus' shoulder to muffle his scream when Marcus thrusts into him, the stretch agonizing and Jeremiah is sure that he'll be bleeding by the end of this.

Marcus relentlessly fucks him into the cold tiles, Jeremiah's body shaken by every thrust. It hurts like hell, the angle is awkward and Marcus is being too rough.

Jeremiah drinks up every second of it.

"Fuck", Marcus whispers in his ear, clamping his teeth down on Jeremiah's earlobe, drawing a broken little whine from him. He rakes his nails down one of Jeremiah's thighs while maintaining a bruising grip on the other. "So good..."

He doesn't last long, releasing inside Jeremiah after just a few minutes. Jeremiah moans brokenly at being filled to the brim, his insides burning hot. But his own dick is still achingly hard. Marcus hasn't touched it at all during and only seems to be reminded when he accidentally brushes it as he lowers Jeremiah back to the floor, trembling legs barely keeping him up.

Jeremiah's breath hitches at the small contact and Marcus blinks drowsily, a crooked grin pulling at his lips when he realizes what's going on. "Woops. Sorry, baby", he croons with a snicker, probably expecting Jeremiah to swoon over the pet name. Jeremiah feels it's out of place, too sweet, and he almost wants to roll his eyes.

But then Marcus' hand finally wraps around his leaking cock and Jeremiah forgets all about the unwelcome attempt at pillow talk. He digs his fingers in Marcus' shoulders for support, whining in pure bliss at the foreign sensation of someone else's hand.

"That's it, moan for me, little slut", Marcus murmurs in his ear, clearly attempting to imitate some form of dirty talk he's heard in a porno. It's mediocre at best and definitely nothing that pushes Jeremiah closer to his climax.

The term _slut_ on the other hand _does_ send a pleasant sting through his stomach and _definitely_ spikes the interest of Jeremiah's cock. He mewls needly, bucking his hips against Marcus' hand. His movements are sloppy, erratic but so _good _regardless. Jeremiah comes with a cry, doesn't protest at all when Marcus' shoves his cum-covered fingers in his mouth.

It's disgusting, absolutely degrading to be made to taste himself and Jeremiah laps it up, the saltiness making his stomach churn. A tingle spreads over his skin when Marcus whispers _good boy_ in his ear.

* * *

Marcus took his virginity. Marcus fucked him, used him, broke him down for the very first time.

And yet, all that Jeremiah could see or feel or taste was Jerome.

Thus begins Jeremiah's downfall, his dive into a world of meaningless, degrading sexual encounters that leave him empty and yearning, yearning for something that fills him up with hate. 

He soon discovers that he has a type, although it was clear from the beginning, as much as he still loathes himself for it. There is no way around it.

Redheads. Tall, preferably buff, borderline abusive, constantly grinning redheads.

They're not as difficult to come by as one would think. You just have to know where to look. And Jeremiah knows where to look, he has spent the majority of his teenage years looking for them.

He usually encounters his objects of desire in cheap, barely occupied bars, the ones that have prostitutes making out with the bouncer right next to the entrance, prompting you to wonder why they even hired a bouncer in the first place. Seventeen-year-old Jeremiah has no problem skipping past them, into the gloomy little room that reeks of cigarettes and piss.

He'll usually sit down in the back somewhere, looking lost and anxious, because he _is_ lost and anxious, but also because it's what baits them. They're drawn to fear, to apparent innocence, ready and willing to bend the meek little thing to their will, make him beg them to stop while yearning for more.

Several men take interest in Jeremiah, good-looking men, charismatic men, men with crazed eyes and quick tongues that are covered in bruises, but he knows how to throw them off, stares at them without saying a word until they're creeped out enough to leave him alone. He has no interest in them. He knows what he wants.

Jeremiah doesn't have to wait very long that night. A drink is placed in front of him and he puts his sketchbook down, looking up.

He's a young man, but definitely older than Jeremiah, maybe in his mid-twenties. He has sparkling blue eyes and a mild stubble that's just as red as the curls on his head. One corner of his mouth is pulled up into a smirk and Jeremiah can feel his skin heat up. The man's fingers are slender, but calloused and Jeremiah spots several still healing cuts on his knuckles. Yes, Jeremiah is definitely getting lucky tonight. 

"Lookin' quite young to be in here, darling", the man tells him in a deep, but melodic voice. His British accent throws Jeremiah off for a split second but he quickly brushes it off. It's not like they'll be talking much.

He smiles, just slightly, fingers twisting together on their own account. Sometimes, he's thankful for this habit, because it definitely comes in handy in times like these. "And yet, you bought me a drink", he says softly, reaching for the glass as he does.

The man throws his head back with a laugh that makes Jeremiah's chest tighten and his stomach burn hot with arousal. In contrast to his deep voice, the man's laugh is high-pitched, almost hysterical.

For a split second, Jeremiah sees Jerome standing before him, all cocky danger and charismatic madness. His fingers tighten around the glass.

The man flops down next to him on the worn couch, without asking for an invitation. Naturally. "Got me there, pet." He leans in close, draping his arm on the headrest behind Jeremiah. He nods at the sketchbook in his lap. "Are you an art student?"

Jeremiah takes a sip from his drink. Or he pretends to. He is very certain that the young man spiked the drink to make him willing, and Jeremiah prefers to be fully conscious when letting strangers have their way with him.

Besides, he is more than willing without the use of drugs.

He keeps his eyes on the man when he lowers the glass back down. "Are you here to make smalltalk or do you want to fuck me?" He flicks his tongue out and over his upper lip, pretending to lick away the remnants of his drink.

The man blinks in honest surprise, eyes glued to Jeremiah's tongue, before laughing again, that same laugh from before, setting Jeremiah's insides on fire. "Bold. I like that." He cocks his head, another trigger for the sinful feelings brewing inside Jeremiah. "Will you at least tell me your name?"

"Xa -!"

Jeremiah cuts himself off. Hesitates.

He looses himself in the sparkling blue eyes for a second, his heartbeat doubling in speed. They're a a shade too dark but in the right light...

And the laugh. That hellforsaken _laugh. _

He gulps, his sheepish act not so much of an act anymore when he drops his gaze to his lap. "Je-Jeremiah...", he whispers, the name still feeling more natural than his alias, a realization that makes him shudder. He doesn't know why. 

He jumps a little when calloused fingers push his chin up. The man makes their eyes meet, his expression openly wanting. "Emory. Jeremiah, eh? That's a bit long." Emory rubs his thumb over Jeremiah's bottom lip and Jeremiah understands, wrapping his lips around the digit, giving an obedient suck.

What Emory says next has Jeremiah's heart in a choke-hold.

"Would you mind if I just called you Miah?"

* * *

The tiles beneath his knees serve as quite the fitting metaphor for himself, Jeremiah can't help but think. They're overused, in desperate need of maintenance they'll never receive, dirty and sticky and broken from years of abuse.

Emory's fingers dig into his scalp, shoving Jeremiah as far down on his cock as possible, keeping him in place even as he chokes. "Miah...", he whispers and Jeremiah squeezes his eyes shut, goosebumps spreading all over his skin.

Emory starts fucking his mouth, his thick heat almost too much to handle. But Jeremiah manages to relax his throat, taking all of him in, a broken sound escaping him, the vibrations around his cock making Emory moan. "You take me so well, darling..."

He quickens his pace, leaving Jeremiah choking and gagging around his cock. His throat is on fire, he can't breathe and the cold, hard tiles make his knees hurt. He's painfully uncomfortable and utterly humiliatiled, being used like a toy in the rotting bathroom stall of what barely qualifies as a bar.

But when he cracks his eyes open to look up at Emory, he finds that it's worth it. His own gaze is met by that of his mirror image, lips parted in pure bliss as he finally takes what is rightfully his. It lights Jeremiah's heart on fire and he feels like he's soaring, losing himself in the illusion of belonging once again. He remembers entangled limbs at night. A hand, identical to his own holding on tight. Warm lips against his forehead.

A tight grip on his wrist and the prodding pocket knife, cutting letters into his skin that weren't deep enough to scar but will forever stay engraved in his soul.

_Jerome's. _ _"Because you ARE mine, Miah."_

"Good boy, Miah", Jerome whispers, and Jeremiah feels tears well up in his eyes when he disappears and turns into Emory again, using the long lost nickname that wraps around Jeremiah's soul like a scarf, pulling tight.

* * *

It's never perfect. Sometimes their voices are too high or too deep, or the accent is all wrong, or they're too short, not charming enough, too lanky, not witty enough, too sweet, not aggressive enough.

They'll satisfy Jeremiah's need when he's desperate and aching, but they can never fill the void that always threatens to consume him whole. 

Because in the end, Jeremiah is forcing himself on a never-ending search that could easily be ended if he wasn't so keen on pretending to be normal and unbroken.

But he's not normal. He'll never be normal and he's broken beyond repair. He sees Jerome's mugshot on the news, and as always he's grinning, a grin that mocks you for all the secrets he knows you're trying to forget. His deep blue eyes are as sharp and knowing as he remembers, looking right into Jeremiah's soul.

Something inside him breaks.

They talk about Lila's murder, about Jerome being brought to Arkham Asylum and Jeremiah has to turn off the TV, his chest caving in.

So close. Just within reach. Jeremiah is tempted. But he always has been.

That night, he doesn't go out looking for a cheap Jerome-imitation (nevermind that he is one himself). Instead, he lays in bed with his eyes closed, two fingers buried deep inside himself while furiously jerking off with his free hand. He imagines Jerome's chest brush against his back, Jerome's hand tangling in his hair and yanking his head back, Jerome's teeth sinking into his flesh.

Jerome taking that hatchet and hacking into Lila's timid body, over and over again until she's reduced to a a bloody mess of flesh and guts.

Jerome smearing blood all over Jeremiah's naked body.

Jerome shoving his fingers in Jeremiah's mouth, making him taste copper.

Jeremiah comes hard, Jerome's name slipping from his lips like a prayer and then he curls in on himself, crying and hurting, feeling feverish, his stomach twisting into a knot. Jerome's voice is mocking him inside his head, the ghost of his touch making Jeremiah's skin crawl as he sings, _mine mine mine forever ~_

He's spent the majority of his still young life trying to escape Jerome's corruption. But in reality, he was corrupted from the very day they were born.


End file.
